


but of course there is hope here comes hope trickling in

by behradtarazi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon Related, Complicated Relationships, Coping, Derek Morgan Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e12 Profiler Profiled, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Late Night Conversations, Male-Female Friendship, POV Derek Morgan, Reunions, Trauma, but please do mind the tags, kinda??, none of the discussion of underage or noncon is explicit, not not canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28685964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behradtarazi/pseuds/behradtarazi
Summary: The dim glow of his phone screen almost hurts his eyes in the dark of his bedroom. It’s pitch black outside, two in the morning, no sane time to be calling anyone. Then again, his thumb’s hovering over the contact that says Greenaway, so sanity isn’t really an issue, here, though she would hit him for thinking it.-After the team finds out about his history, Morgan calls Elle. He doesn’t know why.
Relationships: Elle Greenaway & Derek Morgan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	but of course there is hope here comes hope trickling in

Morgan doesn’t want to see the look in his mama’s eyes, when she hears. She’s probably already heard, probably figured it out quickly enough, but - he doesn’t want to see the look in her eyes. The grief there, the guilt, when it’s not her fault.

So, he hides.

Well, he doesn’t hide, doesn’t sneak away into a supply closet like some kind of scared kid, but he throws himself into what’s left of the paperwork before the team flies back to Quantico, talks to James and gets him as calm as he can, as ready for this as possible.

He stays away from his sisters, too. 

They deserve to hear about it from him, deserve to get the details from _him,_ his version of things, not whatever gets into the papers when the news about Carl goes public. He’ll call them. Later. He will. When he doesn’t have to see their faces. It’s not brave, but it’s all he has left to give, right now.

His phone is burning a hole in his pocket through the entire plane flight away from home. Hotch’s worried eyes are trying not to do the same to his back.

Morgan is silent. None of them can hold his gaze.

* * *

He starts shaking, when he gets back to his apartment. It’s the farthest thing from purposeful, and when he flexes his hand and steels himself and tries to hold it still, he can’t manage it, not quite. It’s not from fear. He’s not afraid right now, not anymore. It’s the adrenaline leaving his body, leaving him aching, leaving him wanting, leaving him hollow.

He should have done something.

He should have said something earlier, years ago, should have made sure that no other kid ended up in the position he did, that _James_ didn’t end up in the position he did. There are so many should haves. There’s no time travel. There’s no turning back the clock.

The dim glow of his phone screen almost hurts his eyes in the dark of his bedroom. It’s pitch black outside, two in the morning, no sane time to be calling anyone. Then again, his thumb’s hovering over the contact that says _Greenaway_ , so sanity isn’t really an issue, here, though she would hit him for thinking it.

He pretends that that thought doesn’t burn. Pretends that his old contact for her hadn’t just been _Elle,_ that she had said goodbye, that so many things were different. Pretends everything that he has to to make it okay to call her now, that there’s a friend waiting for him on the other end of the line.

He’s pretty sure he’ll regret it, but he calls.

* * *

(Hotch said that she had thrown her phone away while he was following her. Reid had still tried to call, when they arrived and found her desk empty.

Morgan didn’t.

She left him a voicemail, a week after. New number, no real message, just “Hey. It’s me,” and it’s still in his inbox, undeleted even once he created her new contact.

He doesn’t know if she called anyone else. He doesn’t think she did.)

* * *

“You know it’s a fucking ridiculous time to be calling, right?”

There’s no real irritation in Elle’s voice, and Morgan almost smiles, sinking into a nearby chair - his bed doesn’t feel right tonight, it feels the farthest thing from right - with something warm sparking in his chest. She’s good at that, still, at making him feel comfortable by just being her. It’s not the same as it was, camaraderie tentative around the edges, but it’s what they’ve got, and he’ll take it. 

“You know it’s a fucking ridiculous time to be answering, right?” he mimics, and she laughs quietly.

“I’m working, what’s your excuse?”

“Adrenaline and two drinks.”

“Ah, right in the sweet spot.”

They’re both lying, and they both know they’re both lying, and both of them want to believe that they aren’t. Folie à deux may never end well, but that doesn’t stop them, not at all. It’s easier this way. Neither of them have ever been fans of self deception, but it’s easier this way, and this time, Morgan needs easier. He really, really needs it.

He’s quiet for a beat too long, and Elle steps up and fills the void. “How’s your football season going?”

“God, you don’t even _want_ to know…”

* * *

They make it an hour without saying anything serious. An hour as the knot in Morgan’s throat slowly comes undone, as it stops being so hard to breathe. Buford’s still on his mind, but Buford is always going to be on his mind, and at least now it isn’t suffocating.

Buford is always going to be on his mind.

He asks the question before he can think better of it, before he can think at all: “Do we ever get to forget the bad shit that happened to us?” He sounds angry. He didn’t mean to sound angry, but he _is_ angry, and he can’t deny himself that.

She pauses, and he wonders who’s haunting her. If it’s the Fisher King, or the man she shot, or someone else entirely, someone she can’t talk about the same way he can’t talk about Buford. He wonders if he really wants to know, and if she trusts him enough to tell him. The last two aren’t really wondering. He doesn’t and she doesn’t, because they’re too similar not to allow a few secrets.

“No. We don’t.” She sounds just as angry and just as tired, and he doesn’t feel ashamed of it anymore. “But we don’t have to be defined by it.”

He had told Buford that. That he had made something of himself by himself, that he was more than anyone’s victim. It had felt…not quite good, but necessary. Earned. Defiant, like a dam breaking, like kicking down a door. Now, though, in the uncaring cold of the early hour, the catharsis has faded and the conviction has, too. The fight hasn’t. The fear hasn’t.

“I know. It’s hard, Elle. It’s hard.”

He can’t picture the look on her face. It’s been too long. “I know,” she echoes. “And fucking unfair. I might hit the next person who talks about moving on like it’s supposed to be easy, because either something is seriously wrong with me or they’re lying through their teeth.”

“Well, there’s definitely something wrong with you, but it isn’t that,” he mutters, and she laughs lighter than either of them feel. “How do you deal?” He puts the bad guys away and hopes that saving someone else can save him. Most of the time, it’s just enough to keep his head above the water.

“Therapy. And...I work at a shelter now. I help people, get them out of bad situations, give them a little hope. Give them someone who listens and believes. Being able to change things for the better for them, being able to impact their lives - it’s everything.” It’s too serious, the first real fact she’s given him about her new life, the first one that paints a picture of this new Elle for him. “I don’t even have to wear one of those ugly FBI vests to do it.”

He smiles.

* * *

(“What would you do if you weren’t in the BAU?” Elle asked Morgan once, relaxing on a beach in Jamaica with drinks in hand.

“Never leave this comfy ass chair,” he replied, and his smile was blinding as she laughed. 

There was a look in her eyes, though. Not quite disappointed, but hoping for something more without daring to ask for it. Would things be different now if they were more honest, then?)

* * *

He never tells her why he called. He doesn’t tell her about the cabin or the abuse or _Look up at the sky,_ and she doesn’t tell him anything either, and they don’t need to. They have similar cracked edges. Cracked, but not broken. That’s enough. Morgan isn’t looking for pity, and Elle doesn’t have any to give.

Sometimes, there are people who understand, and it’s better not to think about how they understand. Sometimes, that’s the best that you can offer.

“The team misses you.” He hasn’t mentioned them, before, hasn’t thought that she would want to talk about them. But by now, he thinks she’ll know that it’s true and that it’s not him asking her to come back.

“I was a joy to be around,” she replies wryly, and her tone quickly changes. “It’s good that I left. The job was fucking with my head. I needed to leave.”

“Do I?”

“That’s not my call to make.”

He considers that for a moment. He remembers all too keenly what it was like to be profiled by his own team, knows that it isn’t a memory that will fade anytime soon, knows that this bitterness isn’t a taste that will fade anytime soon. He’s hurting, yes. It’s not an easy fix, yes. But he can see light at the end of the tunnel. But he hasn’t been twisted out of shape, turned into someone that he isn’t.

He thinks he’ll be okay, some day.

“No. No, not yet.”

* * *

The red blur across the room that is his alarm clock reads 3:47 AM, and Morgan can feel his eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. He hadn’t thought that he would be able to fall asleep tonight, had figured that he was in for staring up at his ceiling until he could see Buford’s face in each swirl of the paint.

But it’s quiet, now. Still. And the faint hum of the phone, Elle’s breathing on the other end of the line, has the tension slowly leaving his shoulders, an accidental lullaby as he curls up in his chair.

“Goodnight, Morgan.”

She doesn’t hang up.

* * *

In the morning, when he wakes and sees the number still on his phone screen, he feels a sudden rush of gratefulness that he can’t explain. For her answering. For her staying, long after she had to.

The next time he wants to call, he won’t need to pretend to think that they might still be friends.


End file.
